


The Streets of Midpoint

by Oliver_do_the_twist



Category: Original Work
Genre: Country & Western, I know this wont get much attention here but oh well, Original Character(s), Original work - Freeform, Short Story, Western, its a western but its different
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25650754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oliver_do_the_twist/pseuds/Oliver_do_the_twist
Summary: Sometimes the most insignificant places are the most life-changing, and sometimes the strangers we meet are not what they seem.
Kudos: 1





	The Streets of Midpoint

I believe the town of Midpoint is aptly named. 

It is truly in the middle of nowhere. 

I had gotten stranded here four awful months ago. And I would rather be anywhere than this backwater hick-hole.

I hail from New York, a stark contrast to where I find myself now. The search of furthering my education had forced me to attempt the journey to San Francisco. However, some bandits had other plans for me along the way. 

They left me, horseless, penniless, and without food and water four miles from Midpoint. I was lucky to have found the town before dark. 

I would not, however, call Midpoint a town. There are but three buildings, one store/post office, a small church, and a saloon catering to each of man's deadly sins.

There is nothing but Mexicans and white trash bandits here, just yesterday there was a shootout where one young man lost his life. Once I heard the shooting, I immediately went to my room above the saloon and waited it all out.

I only heard of the young man's misfortune from the bartender. He, in my educated opinion, is the least insufferable person in town. He came from one of the bigger towns, and still held onto some bit of culture that I could hold some kind of enlightening conversation with that didn't involve killing, stolen cattle, poker, or the whore that resided in the room next to mine named Anna.

Luckily for me, the piano classes I took in New York were not for nothing. The kind bartender offered me a job to play his old Baldwin, and in return I got to sleep in the spare room upstairs and get a reduced pay for it. I do not plan to stay here forever, but at least I can bring some real culture to the murders and thieves that live here while I save enough money to take the stagecoach out of here.

The whore is perhaps the most insufferable person in this town. Not because of her occupation, or even the fact of her gender. She is just simply the opposite of me. She is on all day about superstitions, ghosts, and tall tales. I suppose living in a desert of red sand and tumbleweeds one's entire life would do that to a person. Without proper analysis of the world through a rational perspective I can't really blame her for believing in such nonsense. 

Perhaps it is a coping mechanism. Everyone here seems to be on the verge of blowing up either with anger or grief at any moment. I do see it in her at times. It's the wistful look out the window or the small apprehension in her eyes when confronted by certain customers. 

I see that look right now as she turns upstairs with one such man. I noticed he was a weekly guest of hers, always coming on Sundays at around 6:30. The saloon was mostly empty on Sunday evenings, that must be why he is so punctual. 

Tonight, there wasn't anyone here but me. The bartender had decided to close up early, as he usually does on slow evenings. The saloon had the uncharacteristic aura of serenity as the glasses lay untouched and the card deck at the poker table unshuffled. The only companion I had for the night were the ivory keys at my fingertips as I played my choice in song. 

"Is that a nocturne?" A voice said, startling me from my playing. I had not noticed anyone walk through the squeaky double doors. 

I looked up behind me from my music to see a man in his late twenties. He wore a long dark coat and worn hat. His eyes were clear blue, but clouded with confusion.

Something struck me as odd, no, out of place about him. Even through He wore much the same clothes that every cow hand or bandit that strolled through those doors, there was something about him, maybe the way he held himself, or his walk, that told me he didn't belong in this town. 

"Why yes it is," I said as I stood to greet him. “I believe you are the first to identify any of the music I've played on that thing that isn't 'Camp Town Races'."

"I have a fondness for Chopin," the man said as he hung his hat on the rack. "I think I've always liked classical music."

That last comment of his struck me as odd, "you think?" 

The man became slightly embarrassed, "well sir, I uh, can't seem to remember much about myself lately."

My eyes widened in curiosity, "ah, you mean amnesia?"

"It must be, I can't seem to recall much of anything."

I leaned back and eyed him, "well, have a drink," I offered as I made my way to the bar, "the barkeep has closed up for the night but that doesn't mean we can't try to jog your memory over a glass or two.”

“That's better than any plan I have,” the man said as he took a stool next to me.

I reached over the bar and rummaged through the bottles of what I considered to be pure acid until I found one of the few bottles of wine. I then poured a glass for each of us.

I told him my name, and how I came to Midpoint. 

“You were on your way to San Francisco?” he asked.

I nodded. 

“That sounds familiar.” He began to rub his head, “I believe I was headed that way as well.”

“Well, maybe we can pool our money and try to get there together, and get away from this awful town.”

The man shook his head and frowned in confusion. “No,” he said quietly, “ I can't leave. I know that. I have to stay here.”

I frowned. Having someone to travel with would have been a lot easier, and this man looks like he could handle a few bandits, unlike myself. “Do you know why you have to stay here?”

The man brought his hand to his mouth and frowned. “No.”

The saloon was quiet for a few moments as the dying sunlight caught the bends and curves in our glasses. I took out my pocket watch and checked the time, 7:07.

Sudden loud footsteps came from the stairs, and it seemed Anna’s customer was finished. Both my companion and I turned around and looked at the abrupt noise. 

The brute looked at me and frowned. He cleared his throat and turned out the door with nothing more than a ugly look and a foul lingering smell.

I scrunched my nose in disgust and turned back to my new friend. “You can see why I want to leave so soon.”

The man chuckled.

“Do you know your name? Or any other name?”

He shook his head again. “I do not. The only thing I can recall is this saloon. I know I have to be here.”

“Well, you're here now,” I said as I took a sip from my glass.

The man looked wistfully into his own glass. 

“You said you liked Chopin. Do you know why?”

“I- I think it has something to do with my childhood. The music you were playing seemed old to me, like from a memory.”

“That sounds promising, would you like me to play more?”

“I wouldn't want to disturb no one. It's nice to just talk to someone who doesn't want to kill me.”

“Well then, let me see,” I said as I leaned my elbow on the bar, “you don't talk like everyone else here, I might even venture a guess you're from somewhere near New York based on your slight accent. But you definitely dress just like the next dusty cattle driver that comes through here. Not to mention that gun you wear.”

“That's another mystery,” he said as he pulled it out and examined it, “I checked it and it's completely empty of bullets.”

“Heh, maybe that's why you have amnesia in the first place.”

He smiled sarcastically, “that could very well be it.”

There was no longer any sunlight outside, only a faint glow on the flat horizon. I finished the last sip of my drink and set the glass down. 

The man turned around at the darkened sky. “I think it's time for me to leave,” he said as he stood up abruptly. He turned around and reached out his hand.

I stood and shook it, his hand was cold from the drink. “oh, are you sure? You don't have to leave so soon...”

“No, no, I have to go. Thank you for the evening.”

“Come back anytime,” I said, still a little confused at his suddenness.

He tipped his hat and turned out the doors, leaving me alone in the dark saloon.

The following week I neither saw or heard of the man with amnesia. I asked a few of the tolerable patrons about him, but no one seemed to know anything. I hoped to see him again, if only to make sure he was doing well, or to find out about the mysteries of his past. But I feared the worst. Anything could happen to a man out here. 

Throughout the week, I had noticed Anna had not been herself. I had barely heard a word out of her mouth, not that I usually tried to initiate any conversation with her. But I noticed every chance she got she retreated into herself. She was unhappy, even more so than usual. Before, she always seemed to be holding onto some kind of hope, and for whatever reason now, that hope had fallen from her fingers. 

Honestly, I didn't want to know about her misfortune, I had enough of my own. I know that's insensitive, but I had to focus on getting out of here with the meger pay I get before I lose my mind to the oppressive heat and the endless desert.

It is now Sunday again, and I just bid ado to the bartender as the clock on the wall struck 6:30. Ever punctual, the selfish brute barged through the double doors and stomped his way upstairs. The thought crossed my mind that he could break into my room and steal my belongings, but I dismissed it. Anyone who saw my room saw I had nothing to steal. 

The only valuables I had were inside my head. Equations, literature, philosophical texts, and most important for the time, pages and pages of music.

I put my memory to good use as I performed my evening show for myself. During the days, people only wanted the crude drinking songs; the ones with no feeling or soul. Once everyone went home on Sunday evenings, I had the song choice to myself. I kept myself sane by playing compositions from the greats.

I chose Chopin again, maybe out of a small hope the man would come back. 

My hopes were answered as the clock struck seven. Again, I heard no double doors open, but rather the voice of my mysterious friend;

“I think I know why I like Chopin.”

I turned around, and sure enough he was standing there, dark coat and dark hat.

“You're back,” I said with some surprise as I stood up and made my way to the bar. “You left so soon last time.” I began to pour the wine into two glasses and took my same spot as before. “Sit and tell me about Chopin.”

The man sat down on the bar stool across from me and took the glass of wine. “I think I remember my mother used to play his work.” 

“That's a tremendous discovery! How did you find out?”

“It was your playing. It brought me back.”

I smiled, I was glad my music actually helped someone. “Did it bring anything else back?” 

“I’m getting flashes of high buildings, and a few of my mother's words. She, if I can remember correctly, was a deeply God-fearin’ woman.”

“God-fearing eh?” I said with some disapproval. 

The man frowned, the first I saw with real displeasure. “What's wrong with loving God?” he asked.

I put my hands up in surrender, “To each his own I guess, I just don't believe in any of that stuff.”

“You don't believe in anything beyond this world?”

“It doesn't make any rational sense to me.”

“Well, can you fully disprove its existence?”

I was silent, of course the answer was no, if I knew the answer to everything that would make  _ me _ God.

“Maybe you should keep an open mind about things you don't know, all I’m sayin’.”

I took another sip of wine. “Do you remember anything else?”

At that moment the brute came thudding down the stairs. He eyed me and adjusted his coat collar before leaving out the double doors.

“What's his business here?” the man asked.

“Y-you didn't guess?”

“I feel like it's on the tip of my tongue.”

“He- was here for the company upstairs if you get my meaning.”

“A workin’ girl…” he said, his hand moved to his breast pocket, and his eyes were on the ceiling. But they held no lust or selfish desire; only a soft ache.

The last of the light of the sun sunk below the horizon. At that moment, the man turned and looked at the changing sky outside. He stood up quickly, “It's time for me to be on my way,” he said.

I frowned, “again?”

He nodded, and I stood to shake his chilly hand, “I’m afraid so, it's been a great evening. Thank you again.”

I barely had time to respond to his thanks before he left through the swinging doors.

I couldn't really tell you what happened the following week. I was too lost in my thoughts for most of it. The days blended together. I played the songs, ate my food, and slept when it got dark, but all my tasks were done with the man's words in my mind. Usually if I came across a spiritual finatic, I would dismiss them just as soon as I would a fairy tale. The man didn't say anything I hadn't heard before, but those words coming from him for whatever reason stuck with me. I felt like my whole world view was turning over on itself. 

Anna, in the meantime, had changed from hopeless to downright angry with the world. She was almost comparable to a trapped animal at times. Her temper had gotten so bad to the point that the bartender had to threaten to kick her out, as she was driving all the patrons away. She had cooled off a bit at the prospect of having nowhere to sleep at night. But it didn't change her general mood toward people. It just made me want to stay away from her even more.

It's Sunday again and I sit on my bench, playing Chopin. The brute had come through the doors and up the stairs. I can't help every few seconds my eyes flash to the clock on the wall. 6:50, 6:55, 6:57… my fingers continue their rhythm until I hear the seven chimes.

“Have you ever been in love?”

There he is. 

I close the lid to the piano softly and stand to greet him.

“Isn't that a little personal?” I ask, “couldn't you tell me how your week was, or maybe ask about mine? You know, the normal small talk that friends go on about. Or maybe you could tell me why you only show up on Sundays at seven?”

“I’m glad you consider me a friend.”

“Hmm,” I grumbled, “Well come on then, lets sit.”

I fill the glasses and slide one his way as he takes his seat.

“I’m serious,” he said, “Have you ever been in love?”

I sigh, “Maybe, once. I don't really want to get into it. Why do you ask?”

“I think I’m in love. I think I know why I’m here.”

My eyes widened and I leaned forward, “So? What is it?”

The man opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by sudden angry shouts from above us. We both looked to the ceiling, and I realized the voice was Anna’s mixed with the rough brute’s. The voices became louder as they moved to the edge of the stairs, and became clear enough to understand.

“I’m not doing this for you anymore!” Anna yelled, “you can't make me!”

“You bitch! You ain't no woman!” the brute yelled back.

We could see up to Anna’s knees as she stood above him on the stairs, and by the looks of it she was pushing him down one by one. 

“You get out! You never come back!” she said with each push. We watched as she forced him down. Until the only thing we couldn't see of her was her head.

“You shoot my Jake dead! And you expect me to lay on my back for you? You're lucky I don't kill you! Get out! Get out!”

The brute was finally pushed off the stairs and landed on his backside. “He deserved it!” he yelled, “The thief! You're no better than him! Takin’ my money like that! I’ll be back!”

With that, the brute stood up and stomped away without a word. Anna collapsed into a sob on the final stair, her long red hair cascading over her face and back.

I looked over to the man, who's eyes were as wide as saucers. His hand absentmindedly made its way to his chest, he looked down at his fingertips, which to my astonishment, were now covered with blood. 

I exclaimed at his sudden unexplained injury, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes went back to Anna, and he stood up and made his way silently over to her as if in a trance. 

He crouched down in front of her shaking figure. For the slightest moment he hesitated. But nevertheless he reached out in the most tender way possible and held her shaking hands.

She looked up at the hands that were holding hers. Then, in almost disbelief, she looked at the man's face. Her tearful eyes studied him for a long moment. She brought her hand up to his cheek and just felt his skin as she tried to believe what was crouched in front her. “Jake?” she whispered.

The man leaned into her touch like it was life giving. He looked into her eyes, and cradled his hands around her chin. They leaned in for a kiss, the most tender and passionate and mournful kiss I have witnessed in all my years. 

The man then reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a small fortune of bills wrapped in twine, and a ring. He gave the money to her and she clutched it to her chest. He then reached out for her trembling hand and slid the ring on her finger.

She looked at it with tears in her eyes. But she then focused on the growing red stain on his chest, and a panic began to reach her. Her hand reached out and gingerly touched the red, but the man held her hand against his chest, and with ever patience and serenity, shook his head no.

He wrapped her in a hug, and it was the most at ease I've ever seen her be. Her head found the utmost comfort in the crook of his neck, for a moment I thought maybe they had fallen asleep in each other's embrace. 

The glasses around me began to light up in the dying daylight, and only then did the man look up behind him out the window.

“I have to go…” he breathed.

Anna’s grip tightened around him. He leaned into her and whispered something into her ear. She looked up at him, sorrowful understanding now crossed her features. 

They stood up together, and leaned in for one last kiss. She said something to him as well, but only he could hear it.

He turned and looked at the sunset again, there was barely a sliver left on the horizon, and it was retreating quickly. He looked back at her with yearning in his eyes. But she nodded, “I know,” she said softly, “go, I’ll see you again.”

He took a deep breath and brought her hands up and kissed them before turning away. He held her hands for as long as he could as he walked to the doors, but eventually they fell from each other's grip.

He paused right in front of the swinging doors, his hand resting on the top of one. He looked to the dying light again.

Anna suddenly rushed over to him and hugged him from behind, “don't worry,” she whispered, “I’ll be right behind you.”

The man took a deep breath, and Anna let him go. 

He stepped through the doors just as the last of the sun sunk below the horizon. 

Anna stood there watching the street outside for a long time, and I sat frozen on my bar stool watching her. 

When the last glow from the day turned to darkness, Anna turned around and rushed upstairs. A few moments later, she came down with a small trunk stuffed with her few belongings. She pulled a few of the bills from the money she had been given, and stuffed the rest in her bag before heading toward the doors.

“Wait!” I called, “Where are you going?”

She stopped in the same place the man had in front of the double doors. “The coach to San Francisco,” she said, “Like we were going to a long time ago.”

With that, she left. I watched her walk down the street to where I knew the stage was parked, waiting for a good paying traveler.

I was alone in the saloon once again, trying to make sense of what just happened. I reached out and felt the man's glass. It was just as warm as the rest of my surroundings. There was no rational way to explain his cold hands.

I think that's what stuck with me the most that night. I could explain away almost everything except for his frigid hands. I laid on my uncomfortable bed, but no sleep would come. My mind raced until the early morning hours.

It has been a month or so since my strange encounter with the man and Anna, and I am happy to say I am writing this as I sit in a stagecoach on my way to San Francisco. I had finally saved enough money with my meager pay as a pianist to be on my way to real civilization. 

But as I look back at the shrinking town I cannot help but feel a certain sense of spiritual tie to the pathetic little place. What I witnessed here has changed me forever.

Maybe, I think, the town of Midpoint is more aptly named than I first believed. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
